“Don’t tell me Korbal Broach has-”
“Assuredly not. We are too far from land for Mister Broach to predate on this crew. That would, obviously, be most unwise, for who would sail the ship?” Bauchelain drew on his black chain gauntlets and held both hands out for Emancipor to tighten the leather straps on the wrists. “A most piteous cry,” the necromancer murmured. “All foreseen, of course.”
“Them nails, Master?”
A sharp nod. “It is never advisable to loose the spirits of the dead, to wrest them from their places of rest.”
“It’s kind of comforting to think that there are such things as places of rest, Master.”
“Oh, I apologize, Mister Reese. Such places do not exist, not even for the dead. I was being lazy in my use of cliche. Rather, to be correct, their places of eternal imprisonment.”
“Oh.”
“Naturally, spirits delight in unexpected freedom, and are quick to imagine outrageous possibilities and opportunities, most of which are sadly false, little more than delusions.” He walked over to his sword and slid the dark-bladed weapon from its scabbard. “This is what makes certain mortals so… useful. Korbal Broach well comprehends such rogue spirits.”
“Then why are you all get up for a fight, Master?”
Bauchelain paused, eyed Emancipor for a long moment, then he turned to the door. “We have guests.”
Emancipor jumped.
“No need for panic, Mister Reese. To the door please, invite them in.”
“Yes sir.”
He lifted the latch then stumbled back as Captain Sater, followed by the first mate, walked in. The woman was pale but otherwise expressionless, whilst Ably Druther looked like he’d been chewing spiny urchins. He stabbed a bent finger at Emancipor and hissed, “It’s all your fault, Luckless!”
“Quiet!” snapped Captain Sater, her grey eyes fixing on Bauchelain. “Enough dissembling. You are a sorcerer.”
“More a conjuror,” Bauchelain replied, “and I was not aware of dissembling, Captain.”
“He’s a stinking mage,” Ably Druther said in a half-snarl. “Probably his fault, too! Feed ’em to the dhenrabi, Captain, and we’ll make the Cape of No Hope with no trouble in between-By the Stormriders!” he suddenly gasped, only now seeing Bauchelain’s martial fittings. Ably backed up to the cabin door, one hand closing on the short-sword at his belt.
Captain Sater swung round to glare at her first mate. “Get down below, Druther. See what our lads have found in the hold-Hood’s breath, see if they’re even still alive. Go! Out!”
Ably Druther bared his crooked teeth at Bauchelain, then bolted.
Sater’s sigh was shaky as she turned back to the conjuror. “What plagues this ship? It seems the air itself is thick with terror-all because of a single scream. Listen to the hull-we seem moments from bursting apart. Explain this! And why in Hood’s name are you armed as if for battle?”
“Mister Reese,” said Bauchelain in a low voice, “pour us some wine, please-”
“I’m not interested in wine!”
Bauchelain frowned at Sater, then said, “Pour me some wine, Mister Reese.”
Emancipor went to the trunk where his master kept his supply of dusty crocks, bottles and flasks. As he crouched to rummage through the collection seeking something innocuous, Bauchelain resumed speaking to the captain.
“Panic is a common affliction when spirits awaken, Captain Sater. Like pollen in the air, or seeds of terror that find root in every undefended mortal mind. I urge you to mindfulness, lest horror devour your reason.”
“So that scream was just some mindless terror?”
Emancipor could almost see the faint smile that must have accompanied Bauchelain’s next words. “I see the notion of loosed spirits is insufficient to assail you, Captain, and I am impressed. Clearly you have an array of past experiences steadying your nerves. Indeed, I am relieved by your comportment under the circumstances. In any case, that scream announced the most horrible death of one of your crew.”
There was silence then behind Emancipor and he lifted into view a bottle of black, bubbly glass, only to recoil upon seeing the thick glassy stamp of a skull on the body and a clatter of long bones girdling the short neck. He hastily returned it, reached for another.
“Spirits,” said Captain Sater in a cold, dead tone, “rarely possess the ability to slay a living soul.”
“Very true, Captain. There are, of course, exceptions. There is also the matter of the red road, Laughter’s End and its lively current. A most foul conspiracy of events, alas. To be more certain of what has awakened below, I must speak with my companion, Korbal Broach-”
“Another damned sorcerer.”
“An enchanter, of sorts.”
“Where is he, then? Not long ago he was on deck but then he vanished-I was expecting to find the creepy eunuch down here with you.”
Emancipor found another bottle, the murky green glass devoid of scary stamps. Twisting round, he held it up to the lantern light and saw nothing untoward swimming in the dark liquid within. Satisfied, he collected a goblet, plucked loose the stopper and poured his master a full serving. Then paused and, with great caution, sniffed.
Aye, that’s wine all right. Relieved, he straightened and delivered it into Bauchelain’s left, metal-wrapped hand, even as the conjuror said, in a light manner, “Captain Sater, I advise you to refrain from voicing such gruff… attributions in your description of Korbal Broach. As Mister Reese can attest, my companion’s affability is surely as much a victim of bloody detachment as was his-”
“All right all right, the man’s a damned crab in a corner. You didn’t answer me-where’s he gone to?”
“Well,” Bauchelain paused and downed a mouthful of the wine, “given his expertise, I would imagine he has…” And the conjuror’s sudden, inexplicable pause stretched on, five, seven, ten heartbeats, before he slowly turned to face Emancipor. An odd fire growing in his normally icy eyes, the glisten of minute beads of sweat now on his brow and twinkling in his beard and trimmed moustache. “Mister Reese.” Bauchelain’s voice sounded half-strangled. “You have returned the bottle to my trunk.”
“Uh, yes, Master. You want more?”
Trembling hand now, there, the one gripping the goblet. A peculiar, jerking step closer and Bauchelain was pushing the sword into Emancipor’s hands. “Take this, quickly.”
“Master?”
“A dark green bottle, Mister Reese? Unadorned glass, elongated, bulbous neck.”
“Aye, that’s the one-”
“Next time,” Bauchelain gasped, his face flushing-delivering a hue never before seen by Emancipor-no, not ever on his master’s normally pallid, corpulent visage. “Next time, Mister Reese, any of the skull-stamped bottles-”
“But Master-”
“Bloodwine, Mister Reese, a most deadly vintage-the shape of the neck is the warning.” He was now tugging at his chain hauberk, seemingly in pain somewhere below his gut. “The warning-oh gods! Even a Toblakai maiden would smile! Get out of here, Mister Reese-get out of here!”
Captain Sater was staring, uncomprehending.
Taking the sword with him, Emancipor Reese rushed to the door and tugged it open. As he crossed the threshold Sater made to follow, but Bauchelain moved in a blur, one hand grasping her by the neck.
“Not you, woman.”
That grating, almost bestial voice was unrecognizable.